Something about colors
by Archerea
Summary: Katniss encounters a lot of colors now the war is over. They all have special meanings to her, some good, some bad, but all with a story behind them. Post-Mockingjay, contain spoilers
1. Red

**Something about colors**

This is a series of Hunger Games stories, each focusing on a color and Katniss' feelings about it.

**Chapter 1 Red**

"Peeta, I can't do this." I exclaim, staring at him accusingly, like suddenly all my troubles are his burden and he ought to be able to fix them. He turns around to face me, his hands busy with twisting the tie around his neck in elaborate knots to make it look fine and respectable. I could never do that. Knot a tie, I mean. My natural clumsiness regarding everything pretty would mess it all up, and I would probably get frozen in fear of having something encasing around my neck somewhere in the process. He makes it look so easy, like he has done it all his life. But I know him better. This is the first social event we are attending since the uprising, and Peeta is terrified. I know because his hands are shaking slightly and his gaze flickers randomly to different stuff in our bedroom, like he is unsure where to fix it permanently.  
>I feel bad for him, and a little guilty for imagining that I was the only one being uneasy with this. But of course Peeta, always calm and gentle, overlook the tone in my voice and crosses the room to stand before me. He squeezes my shoulder in an attempt to manifest some courage in me I cannot find myself. "It will be okay" he says reassuringly, and then glances at our bed, where a ton of dresses and other festive clothing is covering the duvet, "Have you figured out what to wear?"<br>I hesitate, glancing down at my very much undressed state. "Underwear?" I suggest in an attempt to be witty, but it seems a sort of miserable joke. He chuckles a little, then picks up a red dress from the pile, "You always looked good in red" he says, but when he sees my expression he hangs it back in the closet, closing the door firmly. I feel relieved. He knows that I cannot stand the red one, which is a little ambivalent, I know, since I still own it and all. It was a gift from Haymitch, but his sense of fashion is actually, and very surprisingly, quite good, so it is not because it is hideous that I can't stand it. And red is not a bad color, really. It symbolizes passion, danger, aggression, even love. Something wild and energetic and vibrant. Those are not bad qualities, one would think. And yet.. _The girl on fire_. I almost always wore red in the interviews before and after the Games. I would be fiery and aggressive like a sharp-pointed flame, or delicate and innocent, like the dancing flickering of candlelight. Cinna had made me all those things. He had shaped me into something brilliant and enchanting, from an uninteresting dead slug to a winner of highest caliber. Poor, lovely, bold Cinna, whose wonderful design for my wedding dress ended up being his last design at all. I close my eyes for a moment, fighting not to let the memories that the color brings with it overwhelm me. When I open them again, I see Peeta looking at me, concern showing in his blue eyes. I take a shaky breath, and then force a smile. "Do you think this one is okay? For the occasion, I mean. Or is it too festive?" I reach into the pile and pulls out a random piece of clothing.  
>"I don't think your father's hunting jacket will be well received at a wedding. Sorry, Honey."<br>My cheeks grow hot, and I toss aside the jacket and dig into the dress mountain again. From the corner of my eyes I see him picking up the jacket from the floor and neatly fold it. I don't care about it getting wrinkled, but I like how he so clearly treats it with respect. Like it is an almost sacred thing, this memory of my father.  
>Getting enough of this stupid dress-hunt, I sit down on the only space available on the bed, on the pillow at the end, and repeat "I can't do this"<br>He leans down in front of me and takes both my hands in his. "It's Gale's wedding, Katniss." he says, running his thump soothingly over my knuckles.  
>"I know. I just.. There will be so many, and I.."<br>"You don't think you are ready to face them again"  
>I nod, because that is exactly what I am. Not ready. For all those people who I have not seen in 6 months, who I've been hiding from, who will ask me questions and expect fulfilling answers which I won't be able to give. They will expect something of me.<br>The districts have just begun piercing their remains of a life back together, and the new government has finally been established, with a representative from every one of the thirteen districts to guarantee that no district will gain too much power over the others. We don't want another Capitol, after all. The individual districts have been opened up to the outside world. People travel across the borders, forming trading agreements and friendships, because now there are no fences and peacekeepers and threats to stop them. Panem has been freed from the oppressive claws of the dictatorial government residing in the former capital city, and is taking slow, but sure steps towards becoming a new country.  
>I can't wear red, that much I know. I don't want to remind the other guests that I used to be on fire. That if the world will be aflame once again, I can be the one they can turn to when looking for a person to direct those flames.<br>Peeta kisses the back of my hand, returning me to reality. "We can stay at home, if you want to." he says, "If you are not comfortable with this, we won't go". The worry in his face makes me smile, if only just a little, and I shake my head. "No, it's okay. We'll go. Pick a color for me."  
>I don't know why I keep all those infernal dresses, really. They were sent to me as a 'thank you' from District 1, where they made accessories and finery, after the uprising, and I do not have the heart to give them away or throw them out. Besides, they are pretty. I think back to before the quarter quell, where my fake trademark interest was to design and create my own clothing, and give a little snort, which, thankfully, Peeta doesn't hear. "Yellow. It looks great with your complexion" He announces with a high-pitched, twisted voice, and I can't help laughing, because it sounds silly when he tries to imitate Octavia, one of the women from my old prep team during the Games. I wonder if she is still alive.<br>Together we clear the bed of anything that is not yellow, which leaves back only two gowns. Peeta raises them in front of him by the hangers. "So, which one?"  
>I study them intensely. The one to the left is a sleeveless, floor-length dress made in fine, light and silky material. It has a thin line of glistening red stones woven across the middle of the upper body, giving the dress its shape.<br>The other reaches only to a little below my knees, and I imagine that, when I walk, it will sway around my legs in a flowing dance of dandelion yellow cascades. The straps are relatively wide, and the fabric is gathered at the waist with a simple, rose shaped pin. A red rose. I feel like retching at the mere sight of it. Peeta notices my distaste. "You like this one the best?"  
>He point to the one with the rose, and I nod reluctantly. If not for that awful rose, I would put it on already. "The District 1 people didn't know about the rose.." he says mildly. "I have an idea" he strides out the room and returns a few moments later with a small piece of purple silk. He takes of the rose and tosses it in the wastepaper basket by his drawing desk, then asks me to put on the dress. It fits perfectly, and when he once again gathers the fabric at the middle, forms a bow with the ribbon and pins it to hold the lengths of dress together, he puts words to my trail of thoughts: "You look stunning."<br>I do. And not in red, which would painfully remind me of Cinna's sacrifice, but in a soft yellow. I change the dress for a normal pair of trousers and a shirt, and then place it carefully among my other pieces of clothing in my bag. Then, before I have the time to become too nervous by the prospect of what we are about to do, I ask him: "Are you ready to go?"  
>Peeta nods at me. We pick up our luggage, turn off the lights, lock the front door of our small house, and then head for the train station. <p>


	2. White

**Something about colors****  
><strong>**  
><strong>Chapter 2 is up

**Chapter 2 White****  
><strong>**  
><strong>I remember when he planted them. I remember everything I thought at that exact moment. The feeling of fond happiness, a feeling I thought I would never again get to experience. Also disbelieve, and even fear. How could he know me so well? Know that this could cheer me up and pull me back to the surface, back to light and sun and life, when I hadn't even known it myself?  
>Primrose. Innocent and pure and a white promise of hopefully everlasting peace. That is what I see whenever I look out the window of our house in the former victor's village. They are so different from the white rose President Snow once left in the writing room. The rose's color was harsh and unforgiving and tainted with the stench of his disgusting perfume. My primroses seem to me to be emitting a soft glow, especially in the early afternoon, where their petals will be bathed in mild orange, red and yellow nuances. And they are planted with love. The neighbors always praise Peeta about them, asks him how he manage to keep them so fine and blooming. Full of life. He spends hours maintaining them, making sure that weeds and harm-doers in general won't get to the fragile flowers.<br>I once asked him why he would use so much time tending to them, instead of putting it to better use. He had looked at me, surprised, and said "Because they represent whom they do."  
>There wasn't more to it, though that answer was more than enough. Those flowers were for Prim. They deserved to be taken care of.<p>

Sometimes I help him in the garden. At first I almost destroyed more than I preserved, as Haymitch so gracefully put it, but Peeta was patient with me, and soon I got the hang on it. I realized that it to some degree was a fulfilling task; to finally, voluntarily, keep someone alive who weren't Peeta and I.  
>He had told me he thought of it as therapy. I knew what he meant. I feel calm when I'm in the garden with him. It's a whole new sensation. I thought the only thing that could bring me to a state of peace like this one was hunting. I'm not saying that gardening beats the vivid adrenalin whizzing through my veins during a deer chase, but it is good. It is like finally being set free. Like in silence reminding myself that I'm done running and hiding and fighting and hurting.<p>

I am engulfed in my favorite armchair by the window in the living room, from where I can clearly see the garden. Peeta is out there, planting new seeds. This time purple, but they will still be primroses. It is winter. All the flowers are sleeping. The first December, after the uprising had ended and we were back in twelve, I had bitterly noticed that all the primroses were dead. Like my Prim. Everything good comes to an end. He had smiled at me then: "They haven't died, Katniss. They are just sleeping"  
>"Really?" I inquired.<br>"Yes" He answered.  
>"Real or not real?"<br>That he smiled at. Our little game. It is a sweet game by now, but back then it was Peeta's way of finding out which facts about himself he could trust, and which his mind had conjured.  
>"Real"<p>

He comes back in. I hear him taking of his coat and boots, before he comes in to sit with me by the window. I move a little in the chair to make room for him, and then drape the carpet I was sitting with around the both of us. My fingers casually touch his hair, becoming wet from the snow melting in his blonde locks.  
>"It is snowing?" I say, slightly surprised. I hadn't noticed it had started to. He shakes his head. "No, it's the handiwork of the kids down the street. Finnagan Odair got this one in." he points to his hair, "Talented snowball fighter, the little guy"<br>"Does Annie know that he is attacking innocent people with slush?" I ask, smiling.  
>"Probably not" Peeta says, laughing, and then adds "I'm glad they moved here"<br>"I know. Me too"  
>And I really am. A year or so after I moved back to twelve, Annie Cresta joined us here, along with her newborn son. She had tried living in four, but it had turned out to be too much for her. She told me that she had seen Finnick wherever she looked. She wouldn't have been able to heal with the memories everywhere around to rip open the still tender wounds. So she came here. The reason wasn't very novel, or anything, she just didn't know where else to go. I guess she felt save knowing that we were here.<br>She still isn't quite stable, but nobody blames her. She has been through a lot. Sometimes she has relapses, moment where she gets either quiet and shuts herself in, or where she gets totally catatonic with the grief of her loss. But she is a good mother to Finnagan. She has taught him what to do when those situations arises. That he should go to our place. She trusts us with her only son, and this trust is justified. We would do anything to protect him. I owe it to Finnick. Because after all it was sweet, crazy, cunning Finnick that saved both Peeta's and my life. Almost everything about Finnagan reminds me of him. They have the same sea-green eyes and bronze skin, but the boy's hair is a few tones darker, like Annie's.  
>"She's coming over for dinner sometime next week. Her and Finn" I tell him, "I met her when I went out shopping yesterday"<br>"That's great!" he exclaim, and then he starts talking about all the delicious food we should make, how he will make a cake decorated with fish, perhaps clean up the living room and eat in there..  
>I just sit there, listening to him with a smile on my face. He has jumped to his feet in his excitement. We rarely get visitors for dinner that aren't Haymitch or Sae and her granddaughter. My mother and Gale live in whole other districts, so they don't drop by often, either.<br>Peeta's hair seems to shine in the light of the lamp. It is dripping and messy, but it seems to almost glow in a soft, white color. A little like a halo around his head, perhaps. That would make him an angel, wouldn't it? I don't know. I don't believe in a god, nor in his winged servants. But if he existed, I would think Peeta could have been one of his angels. Good and fair and honest as he is.  
>Peeta would make an excellent angel, if I may say so. Now I sound like some love-sick puppy. Wonderful.<br>"What are you thinking about?" he asks me.  
>"White" I say, because that is the first thing that comes to mind. He smiles at me questionably. "White? Why?"<br>"I don't know" I look out the window again. At the snow, which has by now, in fact, started to fall. It looks so very solemn and quiet in the way it is slowly wrapping the outside world in a fluffy carpet. Protecting and savoring. "Many good things are white"  
>"Name them"<br>I count on my fingers, "Snow, obviously. Pearls." I still have the one he gave me during the Quarter Quell. "Lady"  
>"Like in Lady, Prim's goat?"<br>He mentions her name very softly and affectionate. He loved her just like I did. Just like I still do. "Yes. Lady was black and white. I am glad I decided to buy her, even though she was weakling to begin with. But off course Prim to care of her, and made her useful to us."  
>We sit in silence for a while. He is running his left hand up and down my left arm. I don't think he has even realized he is doing so, but I don't stop him. His touch feels nice and puts me more at ease. He has that effect on me, generally.<br>"One more thing. Dandelions"  
>He nods. "Yeah. You are okay with me putting some purple ones into the ground, right?"<br>"I am. They are a nice addition. It's gonna be pretty"  
>Like I know anything about what is pretty. People has been trying to tell me what is and what isn't fashionable and modern the last few years, and I have gotten sick of it. So nowadays I just trust my better judgment, which works perfectly fine.<br>"Thank you" he says, obviously delighted, "You know – "  
>"Angels" I suddenly blurt out.<br>"Angels aren't always white"  
>"They aren't?" I ask.<br>"Not everyday angels". After saying this, Peeta stands up with a meaningful smile, kisses me on my forehead, and goes to cook dinner in the kitchen.

Only later, when I lie in our bed, I think about what he said. Could he possibly have meant that I was an angel? I'm not an angel. I'm not blonde, beautiful and innocent. "What are you thinking about?"  
>He leans in and encircles me in his arms. "The thing you said about everyday angels."<br>"Yes?"  
>"You're wrong" I tell him straight-forwardly, demanding a confirmation on this matter from him, "I'm no angel"<br>He frowns, like he is having a hard time figuring out the answer to a problem. Then he rests his chin on my shoulder and whisper into my ear; a soft tickle of air on my skin:  
>"You're my angel."<br>I let myself believe him. Believe that a person like me, who has spent years cheating and murdering and causing nothing but hurt and sadness, can be redeemed and shown mercy. It's a nice thought. So nice that only Peeta would have been able to conjure it. But I decide to play along for a little.  
>And for once, just tonight, I will let myself feel white again.<br>White like a streak of moonshine shimmering in through the window. Like the sweet primroses and the snow covering the sleeping district 12. Like peace and candlelight and a fresh start. Finally.


End file.
